


Sketches for My Sweetheart the Drunk

by emmettcadrian



Series: States [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward First Times, Domestic Fluff, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Modern Era, Showering/Bathing Together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-07-15 00:26:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7197857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmettcadrian/pseuds/emmettcadrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of firsts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drunk Texts (Enjolras doesn't like night-driving)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vivalataire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivalataire/gifts).



> Grantaire's drunk and needs lift home.

Based on/inspired by [this](https://66.media.tumblr.com/992ddd0544e45a42bcc57a0a35930fa8/tumblr_o8hbkmDdCf1tudoopo1_500.jpg).

* * *

Front door locked? Check.

Back and Side doors locked? Check.

Windows shut? Check.

Bedroom door shut? Check.

Flannel pyjamas? Check.

Cup of espresso; milk, two sugars? Check.

Eric Wren's **Randwick to Hargicourt: A History of the 3rd Battalion, AIF [1914-18]**? Check. 

.04mm knitting needles, ball of wool? Check, check. 

Phone charging on the nightstand? Check.

iPod playing Britten's _Peter Grimes_? Check and check. 

Enjolras leaned back against his (three) pillows, and heaved a deep sigh of relief. He was alone in his room, alone in the flat; not that he didn't care for Grantaire, of course (how dare you even suggest it?!), but his lover had been invited out to a club, and Enjolras was glad for the time alone. Relaxing in bed with a mug of coffee, his knitting, and a thick book was utter and absolute Perfection. All he had to do was remove a single earbud and switch on the 11 o'clock News, and his evening would be one of utter _bliss_. His pyjamas were recently washed and freshly ironed; the coffee bitter and hot, and he was finally about to master the double-stitch. A perfect evening. All he could do now sit back and—

His phone beeped. 

Enjolras ignored it, reaching onto the nightstand for his coffee and taking a long, grateful sip of the hot liquid. Utterly perfect. He relished the taste of the espresso, wondering what Jehan might have to say on the subject of drinking coffee that had been brewed to perfection. Enjolras was sure that his friend would have an appropriate poem or verse or lyric that suited the moment. 

Another beep.

Enjolras studiously ignored it, concentrating on his knitting, the opera playing through his earphones, and the News as it unfolded on the small television screen. The idea of having a small screen on the bureau hadn't impressed him at first, but the long evenings in which he and Grantaire sat up and talked about everything under the sun whilst they watched, or pretended to watch a Tati film, had grown on him. Enjolras came to look forward to those nights that neither of them were able to settle down to sleep, and sat up together; wrapped in the duvet and whispering truths to each other.

Beep.

Enjolras sighed, and dropped his needles; reaching over for the phone that was glowing with the newly-arrived text messages. Keying in his code—1830—Enjolras squinted, pushing his glasses further up his nose. 

**hey... u think u can come pcik me uUp? im to drnuk** [11:17PM]

Grantaire. He sighed. Of all of the f—

**I will be there soon. Wait inside, out of the cold** [11:18PM]

Out came the earphones, and off went the small television. He stuck the needles back into his ball of wool, and looped the spare wool around the end of the needle. He would come back to it, of course. E switched his iPod off, and left it in a tangle of wire on the nightstand; taking another gulp of his coffee and leaving the mug more than half empty. Oh, well. It was a lovely cup, while it lasted. He felt his phone vibrate, and pulled it from his pocket as he toed his runners on, reading Grantaire's reply.

**hjoK. i wil**  [11:21PM]

Keys, keys? The car keys were sitting in the small bowl on the hall table. E was glad that they'd been left there, and were not in some pocket of a pair of trousers, or jumper, or jacket. He'd done it before, and made himself _furious_. He checked his pockets—keys, phone—and nodded to himself. He'd left his glasses on, needing them to drive, and made his way down the hall, and out of the door. 

Enjolras shuddered as he turned the knob and stepped out into the night air. How anyone could have fun in this frigid chill was beyond him, but it was never his place to judge or complain. Everyone had their proclivities, whether going out and freezing their asses off or staying in and cuddling up beneath a duvet. Enjolras hoped that Grantaire was staying inside, avoiding the street and cool air, at least until he arrived.The master lock on the driver’s side having broken several months (possibly years, it was hard to tell how long Enjolras had had the car for) ago, E had to walk around to the passenger's side door and unlock it from that side. Shivering in the night air, he wished for central locking. Perhaps in the next few months? He grumbled to himself, chastising himself for not fixing the locks sooner. E opened the door, and climbed in behind the wheel. 

Driving at night was a new difficulty for Enjolras, blinking behind his glasses and peering out across the road; eyes struggling against the faint light of the streetlamps. The roadworks on Boulevard Périphérique made it that much harder; Enjolras noting the particular lack of light in the street, weak or no, as he shifted in his seat and nodded at the first gendarme who waved him through the slow crawl of traffic. Enjolras found that the weak light of the streetlamps in the inner city streets did not adequately light the road, and he constantly found himself switching the high beams on whenever he drove at night. It was why he gently—albeit reluctantly—recommended that Grantaire seek assistance home with someone else, should he stay out particularly late. Knowing that driving a night was a difficulty for his lover, Grantaire had readily and happily agreed; accepting the creeping limitations of Enjolras' increasingly poor vision. _Perhaps his designated carpool had fallen through?_ Enjolras knew that Grantaire respected his creeping limitations, and always made sure to use alternative methods when finding his way home from a bar or club or party at a private residence. He knew that R would not text him a request for a lift home so lightly, without attempting to seek out alternative forms of transport first, and hoped that nothing bad had befallen whomever Grantaire had asked to drop him home. The tinny musical notes that sounded from the radio indicated that the news had, in fact, just ended. Half-eleven. Thirteen minutes since R had sent him the message. Tapping his fingers on the wheel—hands at ten and two—Enjolras hummed along to the opening bars of Plastic Bertrand's _Ça Plane Pour Moi_ , waiting for the fluro-vested gendarme to wave him through the second traffic crossing. 

He hummed, fingers tapping; that awaited wave subtly signalling that he might drive through, and Enjolras lifted his hand in thanks, receiving a curt nod in reply. He did not envy those poor men and women, working late into the night in order to repair the road and walkways, and drove 'round the corner with a shiver at the thought of the brisk night that awaited him, though the cool evening air did not seem to bother the revellers; a large group of men and women spilling across the footpath and road as they departed from the brightly-lit interior of the club, both doors opened and hooked back against the wall in order to provide passage for the small crowds constantly arriving and departing. Enjolras scanned the groups that tipped past the car; rolling the window down a scant few inches to help his mission, flinching at the breeze as it washed over his face. With a wince, and a panicked glance at the street, he pulled over, reversing back, and pulled the handbrake down. He regretted not specifying where he would meet Grantaire—

"Yoooo!" a loud sing-sing voice drawled, waving at him, and Enjolras smirked as he spotted the man in question. Grantaire, having waited for his lift home in the light of the open doors of the club, wandered forward upon spotting the car idling in the street. He had waved, hoping to draw Enjolras' attention, and slowly meandered towards the car. He had the glazed, happy look of a man who had had a lovely evening and was in the arms of the liquid Lady, enjoying her warm, alcoholic embrace; hands jammed into his pockets as he walked with graceful ease through the throng of people. Enjolras watched him, a smile spreading across his face, and leaned over to the passenger side door, flicking the lock up with his right hand. Grantaire knocked on the window once, giving a brief wave, and opened the door. When he climbed in and pulled the door shut, he settled back into the seat with a deep sigh, and turned to look at his lover.

"Evening," Enjolras said, softly, and Grantaire blushed, or so it seemed; cheeks pinking in what little light streamed into the car from the club and weak streetlamps. 

"Evening," Grantaire replied, clearing his throat. 

They looked at each other, taking in their twin appearances with unmasked delight. Grantaire wore black trousers and a dress shirt (white); the top three buttons open, exposing the barest hint of skin and the dark hair on his chest. He wore a thick black jacket, ill-advisedly unbuttoned against the chill, and carried a faded coat, now bunched in his lap. He smelled like cologne and cigarette smoke; hair a mess in his silhouette, and his pleasant face was lax and open. He was drunk, _yes_ , but not that unpleasant sort of drunkenness that lead to shattered windows and shouting and loud weeping in the street. He smiled at Enjolras, taking in his lover's relaxed appearance.

The glasses were, of course, the newest addition to Apollo's neat attire. They were thin gold frames that balanced neatly on the bridge of his nose; rounded lenses from behind which blue eyes gazed gracefully. Headaches and murmurs about difficulty reading fine print had lead him to an optometrist, and the eventual diagnosis of long-sightedness. Enjolras would need the glasses for reading, writing, and now, it seemed, driving. It was why E had begun to avoid night-driving, not wanting strain his eyes any more than possible. Unbeknownst to the wearer, the glasses aroused Grantaire; the latter experiencing a prickle of heat whenever he saw Enjolras wearing them, and that prickle sometimes become a long, slow flood towards his groin whenever R found himself the subject of scrutiny beneath them. Having been called from his bed, Enjolras had not bothered to change from his flannel pyjamas; merely donning a thick coat and pulling on a pair of worn runners, _sans_ socks. He looked warm and cozy and as they watched each other, love and warmth spilling between them, Grantaire wished to climb inside the pocket of E's coat, and bury himself there. 

"Shall we?" 

"Y-," Grantaire nodded, "-yeah. 'Course."

Enjolras looked at him, blinking steadily. A wave of heat raced through Grantaire.

_Those damned glasses,_ he thought. 

Enjolras smiled, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth. Grantaire experienced a wave of panic, even in his state of inebriation. 

_God, did I say that out loud?_

"Seatbelt," was all Enjolras said, still smiling, as he nodded at Grantaire's right shoulder.

_Duh._ R fumbled with the strap, and brought it over his shoulder and chest; the melt clicking as he pressed it in place. 

"All set?" E asked, and R nodded, closing his eyes.

"Hmm," Grantaire nodded, rubbing his eyes, and Enjolras set the car in Drive. 

The man had a way of _phrasing_ things; of _looking_ a particular when when he phrased things, and that specific look and phrasing always made Grantaire damp and hot, no matter the situation in which it occurred. He'd experienced that odd flash of arousal on the strangest of occasions; heat prickling down his back and neck as Enjolras had lectured him on the correct method of condiment storage and which examples of Young Hegelian philosophy were more accurate, as well as during R's slicing porcini mushrooms for the salad, and watching E iron his jeans. He felt it as Enjolras pulled out of the parking space, and directed the car gently down the street, through the drifting pedestrians. They pulled up behind a white Prius, idling at the turn-off. Grantaire felt that arousal now, turning his head to watch the man behind the steering wheel; something fantastically _male_ about his lover as he tapped his fingers on the wheel, humming gently. 

"What was that?"

Having been drifting off; lulled to gentle rest by the vibrations of the car and the warmth of the heater, Grantaire startled when he heard Enjolras' voice. He glanced up, blinking against the alcohol fatigue that was threatening him, and rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of his right hand. The gesture made him look like a small, tired boy. He was not aware of any conversation. 

"Hmm?"

"You said something-"

"Did I?" Grantaire asked, tiredly; a slight slur to his words. 

"Yes, " Enjolras said, indicating left, "You did."

"What was it?" 

"I'm not sure, I didn't quite catch it-"

"What did it sound like?"

"Ah-," Enjolras felt himself flush, "-like. _Uh_. Like _g_ _lasses_."

Grantaire blushed, and ducked his head, rubbing his cheek on his shoulder. Enjoltras caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, and he smiled. 

"Huh," was R's response. 

"Huh?"

"Huh."

"Hmm," Enjolras nodded, nibbling on his bottom lip.

"They're good," Grantaire drawled.

"They?"

"The-," he shifted in his seat, "-the glasses. Are. Good."

"Thank-you."

"I like them"

"As do I."

"I really like them."

"They have their uses."

"No, Enj-" his lover's name was too much for him in that moment, and Grantaire swallowed a burp, "-I mean. I really, _really_ like them." 

"Ah."

"Yeah."

"I see."

"Of course you do. They're glasses," Grantaire let out a wet snort of laughter, shaking his head at his own brilliance. 

"Well put," Enjolras grinned.

"Wear them-"

"I _am_ -"

"-the next time we have sex, okay?"

"I-uh," Enjolras blinked, braking at a Stop sign, and indicating right, "Sure. If."

"It's what I'd like."

"Well. Alrighty, then."

"Thanks."

"You're, _uh_. Welcome."

Enjolras turned right; driving straight along the street for 500m, taking another left and driving straight, once again; Grantaire mumbling along to the radio and trying to sing to Reba, who singing about the fear of being alone. His stuttered slurring made Enjolras smile, and he snuck small glances at his drifting lover when the opportunity arose. Grantaire had balled himself up in the seat, coat spread across his legs like a blanket and hands jammed up beneath his armpits. His eyes were closed, but his breathing had not slowed enough to indicate that he had fallen asleep. Indeed-when Enjolras pulled over in front of their apartment, R's eyes opened and he struggled into a sitting position, albeit unsuccessfully; the seatbelt trapping him in a strange, half-hunched position. Enjolras switched off the ignition and pulled the keys out, placing over at Grantaire as he unclipped his belt. Grantaire stared at him, pulling on his own belt; mouth slack.

"Help," he muttered, hands flailing as if in distress, and Enjolras smiled; leaning over and clicking the release button. With a gentle hand, he guided the strap back over Grantaire's abdomen and shoulder. The movement brought their faces startlingly close, and Grantaire pressed a wet kiss to Enjolras' chin. 

" _Thank-you_ ," he breathed.

" _You're welcome_ ," was the soft reply. 

" _Inside_?" R asked.

" _Absolutely_ ," Enjolras replied, "Come on."

Cursing himself for not leaving the outside light on, Enjolras fished about for the house key for several confusing moments. He squinted at the set of keys in his hand, and shuddered in the cool night air. He was wholly unprepared for Grantaire to flop almost entirely on top of him, wrapping his arms around his midriff and pressing his face to E's neck; knees almost giving out beneath the sudden weight on his back.

"Hang on-," E struggled, fishing for the key, "-I've just got to-"

"Open Sesame," Grantaire drawled, snuffling at the warmth of E's neck. 

Enjolras huffed out a laugh, and the key slid home. With a triumphant almost-flourish, he turned the key in the lock. 

" _Inside_ ," E murmured, nudging R in the ribs. 

They crossed the threshold; R leaning on Enjolras in his liquid stupor, kicking the door shut behind them. Enjolras made a mental note to come back and lock the front door when he had Grantaire safely tucked up in their bed. He grunted, dropping the car keys onto the small hall table, and continued to half-carry, half-drag his lover towards their bed. 

"It's all waaaaaaaarm," Grantaire drawled, sighing at the warmth of their flat. 

"I put the heater on for a moment," Enjolras said, nudging open their bedroom door. 

"Very good," Grantaire nodded, and unwound his arm from E's waist in order to drop down onto their bed. 

Enjolras took R's coat from his lax hands, and slung it across the chair in the corner. 

He walked back to the bed, and looked down at Grantaire; the latter looking up at him with an expression of benevolent peace. 

"Sorry."

"For what?" Enjolras asked, kneeling down in front of him; fingers going to the man's laces.

"I'm dr—ink," Grantaire slurred, rolling his head, "—I'm drinking. Drank. Dranking."

"You've been drinking?" Enjolras said, cupping the back of R's heel and lifting it from his shoe. 

"Yeah, that."

"I had realised—," Enjolras said, softly; looking up at Grantaire and smiling, making sure that R knew he meant no harm with his words.

"I feel funny," Grantaire announced, and Enjolras nodded; tucking his shoes under the bed and out of the way.

"You're drunk—," Enjolras pointed out, climbing to his feet again, and sliding his hands under R's elbows.

"—and _how_ ," Grantaire agreed, happily, allowing those hands to slide down his arms. 

"Lift—," Enjolras said, nudging him; taking a handful of fabric and easing the jumper over R's head. The movement startled Grantaire's already panicked curls, and his head emerged from the jumper a ragged mess; a sleepy and indulgent smiling uncurling over his face as their eyes met, and Enjolras felt his heart flutter as he folded the jumper in half over the back of his chair. That smile followed his across the room to the chair and the door, waiting patiently as he closed it; turning mischievous as Enjolras cleared his throat and dropped to his knees again, fingers dancing over R's belt buckle. 

" _Ahem—_ ," Grantaire huffed, eyes sliding shut. 

"—you're _not_ sleeping with _this_ on," Enjolras murmured, cheeks flushing as he pulled the leather belt from the loops in a single, swift movement, "—I'm just making you comfortable."

" _Ahhhh_ —"

" _Exactly_ —," E nodded, "—exactly _that_."

He wound his arm around R's waist, pulling him to his feet and holding him flush against his side so that he could turn the bedcovers down further. The expanse of bedsheets exposed, Enjolras deposited the near-dozing Grantaire down onto the soft mattress, lifting his legs gently and tucking them beneath the sheet. Grantaire rolled his head against the pillow, murmuring apparent nonsense as he settled himself, and lifted his hands obligingly as Enjolras tucked the thicker duvet around him. The man seemed slightly perplexed; gazing up and over at Enjolras in befuddled wonder as E switched overhead light off and flicked the nightstand lamp on. The small lamp cast a yellowing glow around the room, and Grantaire blinked at the change in brightness, still murmuring to himself; Enjolras toeing off his own shoes and pushing them under the bed. Having not bothered to change out of his pyjamas when he left the house earlier on, all E had to do was pull off his jumper and he was ready for bed again. His jumper joined Grantaire's on the back of his chair, folded over neatly, and he was soon sliding under the covers. 

Grantaire, dozing off, was a source of warmth in himself, and Enjolras found himself pressing against his drunk lover; Grantaire shifting beneath the covers and pressing his right cheek to E's stomach. Their legs tangled in a pleasant heap, and a small, warm hand pressed itself to the exposed skin of his abdomen; Enjolras inhaling sharply at the gentle touch, and he took a moment to relish the wholly innocent touch. The fingers smoothed themselves against E's skin, and lay still, curling in the hem of his shirt. Grantaire let out an exhausted yawn, and E let out a soft giggle.

"Time to sleep," he said, nudging Grantaire gently.

" _Hmmmm_ ," was the answer, and Grantaire burrowed beneath the duvet; his thick curls the only part of his body thus exposed, and Enjolras reached for his knitting. His tea would have long-gone cold, thus ignored in favour of the tangle of grey yarn and .4mm needles. If he rest that tangle of wool on Grantaire's bulky head, Enjolras might just be able to rest his book on his left leg, and continue where he left off, sans tea and the 11PM News. It seemed as if they were settling gently, both men relaxing after their mild  ordeal. Grantaire stirred beneath the blankets, and Enjolras gently shushed him, thinking it the best way to relax him.

"Oh sh- _shit—_ ," Grantaire slurred, pushing himself up on his elbow, "—wait, I—"

"What's wrong?" Enjolras asked, concerned. He lay his book aside, peering at Grantaire from over his glasses, "Do you feel sick?"

"Nah—," Grantaire shook his head, flailing about, "I gotta—"

"What do you need? Water? A bucket?"

"Nah, I—" Grantaire hiccoughed.

"Do you need the bathroom?"

"—I gotta call Enjol- _Enj_ -Raas."

Enjolras stared at him.

"Enjoleras—"

Enjolras stared.

"Enjoy our _ass—_ "

Enjolras continued to stare.

"I asked him to pick me up and—," Grantaire shook his head, curls flopping over his face, "—he's gonna be a bit _cross_ if he finds out—"

"Grantaire—," Enjolras began, slowly. 

"—if he finds out I wandered off, and—"

"Grantaire—," Enjolras tried to continue, just as slowly. 

"—and got into a _bed_ ," Grantaire let out a high-pitched giggle, tongue pressing against his teeth, "—in my socks, with a _person_. Most deci-decisively not _he himself_."

Enjolras, who was, in fact, most decidedly  _he himself_ , stared at Grantaire. He was utterly perplexed by this turn of events. 

"Grantaire—," he tried, again. 

Grantaire leaned across Enjolras, pushing him back into the pillows with his elbow as he groped the nightstand for his phone.

"Grantaire, I—"

" _Shush_ ," Grantaire snarled, a slight slur; putting his finger to his lips, "I gotta text _the Man_."

"The Man?" Enjolras asked, raising an eyebrow. 

" _Shush_ , En _jol_ ras" He growled, again, pushing at the buttons on his phone, "I'm texting _En_ jolras, Enjol _ras_."

How R managed to pronounce E's name in three different ways with three different variations of tone in the space of six words, Enjolras did not know. He pressed his lips together, fighting to keep down a loud and obnoxious giggle that threatened to burst from inside him. He had never seen Grantaire so pissed; had never faced the conundrum of having to, quite possibly, contend with himself if his lover admitted that he had gone home with him, another man in the moment of inebriation, and it was all amusing Enjolras more than he thought such a turn of events ever would amuse him. The fact that Grantaire was demanding his silence while he sent-or, rather, _tried_ to send a text-to him was an occurrence best remembered and kept for future use. Perhaps for use at a meeting, or a party? Enjolras did not know, and watched Grantaire pressing the screen with the utmost concentration; tongue poking out from between his lips. 

**o u dnt have to anYmore.. im home now** [12:03AM]

"Sent," Grantaire declared, triumphantly; victory written across his delighted and ruddy face. 

"May I—?" Enjolras asked, holding out a hand. Grantaire stared at the proffered palm, and a look of realisation crossed his face; pressing the phone into E's hand as he realised that which Enjolras was asking for, and did not feel weighed down or threatened by the request for his phone.

"Keep him safe," was all Grantaire said, watching Enjolras place the phone on the tissue box.

"He is," was the answer; bitten-off laughter creating an odd inflection in Enjolras' voice. He was so close to bursting out in laughter, relieved when Grantaire yawned and snuggled back down against him.

"Are you alright now?"

"Gotta sleep—," Grantaire mumbled, rubbing his nose against Enjolras' hip.

"Yes, you do," Enjolras replied, sternly, petting that mess of hair. 

"Hope he's not mad—," Grantaire said, mournfully, "—that I disturbed his peace and quiet."

"He's not," Enjolras said, still petting him.

"He knits, you know," Grantaire declared.

"Yes," Enjolras fought to keep from laughing, nodding gently, "I am aware."

"I love hi—him," Grantaire rubbed his nose with the heel of his hand, "—do you know?"

"I do, yes," Enjolras nodded, "And he loves you, too."

"That's good," Grantaire said, his eyes sliding shut.

"Goodnight."

A loud snore was the response. Enjolras picked up his needles, smiling as he felt a snore rumble through his companion, and was struck by a lovely idea. He reached for his phone, hoping that Grantaire would appreciate the joke in the morning, after a long sleep and a bacon sandwich.  

**Yes, I am aware of that. I did pick you up, after all.** [12:17AM]


	2. Glub, Glub (Boys in the Tub)

The sudden lack of warmth and pressure at Grantaire's side, as well as the scrape of the curtains and the burst of light made him groan; cringing away from the stream that suddenly bloomed in the pleasantly dark room. He rolled over, still groaning, and tried to bury his face in the pillows; hands groping beneath the sheet and duvet for the body of  his companion. Hearing the scrape of the bureau across the room, Grantaire grunted his annoyance at the noise and light. 

"Good morning to you."

"Urghn."

"Yes, you too."

Lifting the blanket a few scant inches and cracking open an aching, bleary eye, Grantaire peered across the room. He made out Enjolras, standing in front of the open draw and rootling about in their clothes. The sight of his lover busily moving about the sun-bright room made Grantaire unbelievably angry, and he swore into the blanket now propped over him like a tent.

"Need a sock."

"A single sock?" Grantaire croaked.

"Can't find the pair."

"Check elsewhere."

"The wash, perhaps?"

"Shut—"

"—or maybe the 'to-be-ironed' pile?"

"—the fuck—"

"—under the bed?"

"—up."

"Mr Grumpy," Enjolras murmured, a smile on his face. 

Grantaire sat up, pulling the blanket off of his head, and clapping a hand to his eyes.

"Why the fuck is it so bright!?"

"It's 6:45."

"Shut the heck—"

"As I said," Enjolras said, gleefully; eyes roaming over the porcupine that was currently masquerading as Grantaire's hair, "Good morning."

Blinking again and again, Grantaire rubbed his eyes, and peered over at Enjolras; the man carrying a towel, a mug of beef tea, three pencils, and a spiral-bound notebook.

"Um..." Grantaire stared at him, not sure if he was still dreaming. 

"Um—?" E repeated, almost brightly. 

"Where are you going?"

"To shower. Obviously."

Grantaire stared at him. 

"Why—"

"Showering is a necessity, Éloy."

"—are you"

"Very good for waking you up—"

"—carrying a notebook?"

Enjolras blinked, and looked down-as if in surprise-at the assortment of items that he carried.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Huh."

"That."

"Well?"

"I get all my good ideas in the shower."

Grantaire stared at him, eyebrow inching upwards slowly. 

"..."

"Remembering them all, in order, during my various soaping, can be difficult."

"So—"

"So I keep my notebook on the sink—"

"Wait—"

"—so I can write them down, when they strike."

"So..."

"Yes?"

"...you climb _out_ of the shower and write your ideas _down_?" Grantaire asked, "Naked and wet and _dripping_?"

_Hoo, boy._

"...yes?"

The somewhat surprised  _what, you don't?_ went unsaid, but Enjolras' deliberately blank face expressed all he thought on the subject. 

"Don't you drip all over your paper?" Grantaire said, shifting in bed. He was picturing the naked man bent over the counter, pencil in hand.

"I do."

"Doesn't the ink run?"

"I write in pen, hon."

"How can you see?"

"With my eyes."

"Without your glasses, you _doofus_ —," Grantaire threw a pillow at him, "I mean, I presume you take them off to shower, yes?"

"I do, yes. But I write an approximation—," Enjolras said, fingers drumming the plastic cover of his notebook , "—even if it's a vague scribble."

"Really?"

"I'll know what I mean."

"Really."

"Yes."

"Uh, huh," Grantaire shrugged, not quite believing him; the Hangman Incident of Escalation at the forefront of his mind, "I suppose I'll have to see it to believe it." 

"You're very welcome to join me," Enjolras invited; his voice dropping a register below humanly decent, and as a blush spread across Grantaire's cheeks, he fully expected to receive a slow wink at the encouragement to vacate the bed, and join his lover in the warm water of his morning shower. All he could do was gape. 

"I—" and he couldn't quite make his brain work; hands curling in the duvet as his morning erection made itself known. All Grantaire could do was sink lower into the sheets, pulling them up to his chin. 

"Suit yourself," Enjolras smirked, and wandered from the room. The bastard left the door _open_ , of course, so Grantaire could hear him clattering about in the tiny hall and kitchen; filling the percolator with water and coffee, as per his routine. Grantaire sighed, muttering to himself. Now that he was awake, he became aware of his mess of hair and the stubble on his face, and cringed at the humanness of his need to groom. Maybe he would take just a little  _peek_ at Enjolras in the nude, and having some strong black coffee in bed would help him doze off—to lunchtime, hopefully—and even as the smell of the freshly-brewed coffee assailed his nose, Grantaire twitched at the thought of Enjolras, naked and damp as he wrote some vague thought about the separation of Church and State whilst soaping his—

Grantaire swallowed, and took a deep breath. Decision made, he climbed out of the warm bed—spotting Enjolras' sock beneath the side table—and glanced about for his towel. Enjolras preferred that he hung his damp towel in the bathroom so that their bedroom wouldn't smell like wet fabric, but the crinkle in his nose and the sound of his tiny sigh upon spotting Grantaire's towel in their bedroom made Grantaire's heart ache with love at his lover's ridiculous little poetries. Not seeing it behind the door, or slung over their tiny black-and-white television, he supposed that Enjolras must have hung it up in the bathroom during the night. He sometimes did that; waking up in need to think, and scrubbing the kitchen from top to bottom, or even ironing their pants at 3AM. Curious at the man's bathing habits, Grantaire ignored the pot of coffee, and, cringing at the chilly morning air, tapped on the bathroom door.

"It's open—" not quite the lover's tryst that it sounded, the locking having broken some months before; in desperate need for Bahorel to take a look at the mechanism, Grantaire cracked the door open. He heard the water running. 

"It's just me," he said, rather foolishly.  _Who else would it be?_

He opened the door wider, hoping to see Enjolras standing beneath the spray and soaping the expanse of his back; water streaming down his legs and bum, and huffing out a disappointment when he spotted the shower running, but no naked Enjolras. The man was, as he promised he might be, hunched over the sink and furiously writing in his notebook; pages clinging together as their air in the bathroom grew heavy with moist and steam.

"We have limited hot water, Anatole," Grantaire said, reaching into the shower and turning the tap off; forearm and sleeve now slightly damp. 

"Eh?"

"I said—"

"I'm in there."

"You are not."

"I _am_. I was just—"

"Scattering water—"

"Just—wait. A moment," Enjolras was still scribbling. 

"No. You're wasting water on this environmentally damaged planet we currently inhabit," Grantaire shook his head sadly, "Single-handedly wasting what precious little water is left, and you don't even have an avocado farm."

Enjolras ignored him, busily writing.  

"Which is, admittedly, impressive."

 

"Enjolras?"

No reply.

"Anatole?"

"Hmm?"

"Avocado farm?"

"I don't have one," was the murmured reply. 

"You're dripping all over the floor," Grantaire complained, "which you _hate_."

He snuck a look at Enjolras' notebook; at the man's blind scribbles. He made out _szgyszgy_ , and that was all. 

"Are you finished?"

"Eh?"

"You finished?"

"I haven't showered yet."

"Well, as long as you're busy—"

Grantaire lifted off his shirt, and tugged the drawstring on his trousers. Enjolras watched him, mouth slightly agape. Considering that he couldn't see without his glasses on, the scribbles in the notebook and the bedazzled look he had on his face were impressive; Grantaire hardly noticing the chill of the morning as he stepped out of his pyjamas, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and standing naked before his lover. 

"— _I_ might as well shower."

Steam swirled anew as Grantaire turned the taps on, water streaming from the shower head. He twiddled them, adjusting the temperature until his skin no longer smarted from the heat, and he didn't shiver when he immersed his bare arm in the stream. He looked at Enjolras, fingers twiddling in the water, and smiled; stepping into the recess and pulling the curtain shut behind himself. He stood, head bowed; water streaming down over himself and soaking his thick hair, a small smile playing over his face. He knew that Enjolras would climb in behind him, unable to resist the lure of the shower, or his naked lover's body. 

The shower curtain shuddered; rings scraping over the rusted railing as Enjolras stepped back into the recess, pulling it shut behind him. Back going cold with the flash of morning air, Grantaire smiled, hands hovering over the knobs. 

"The water right?" he murmured, water spilling over his lips.

"'T's fine," Enjolras murmured back, plastering himself to Grantaire; hands snaking 'round his waist.

"You sure?"

"Hmmm."

"I'll take that as a yes."

They stood in silence, relishing the warm water.  Steam swirled around them; the soap-stained glass fogging with the heat.

"Speaking of chickens—," Enjolras suddenly began, breaking the silence; reaching 'round him for the bar of soap, "—do you think it's because of certain physiological differences?"

"...you've lost me," Grantaire said, raising his voice so that he might be heard over the water; turning his face upward to the stream.

"Chickens," Enjolras said, an explanation. He was rubbing the bars of soap between his hands, working up a lather. 

"What about them?"

"The physiological differences in the types of chickens," the soap hands pressed themselves to Grantaire's back, and began rubbing small circles against his skin. 

"...and?" Grantaire took a moment; the pressure on his back a twin delight under the hot water and steam. 

"Are they the reasons why we don't eat roosters?"

Grantaire turned, hands curling over Enjolras' hips as he shuffled in the small cubicle.

"What are the reasons responsible for us _not_ consuming chickens?"

"Roosters," Enjolras corrected, eyes closing under the spray of warm water, "We eat _chickens_ , but we don't eat roosters."

"Hens?" Grantaire guessed. 

"That's the one," Enjolras nodded, soaked hair flopping over his eyes like some sort of strange type of fringe, "Hens, not roosters."

"Why do we eat hens and not roosters?"

"Hmm."

"Well—" 

Enjolras looked at him, waiting for the explanation.

"—I'm no expert on chicken politics, but—" 

Did those words really just come out of his mouth?

"—I think hens are, by their very nature, fatter."

He soaped his own hands, and lifted them to Enjolras' neck.

"Don't—"

"—I'm not touching your neck, hon, I'm doing behind your ears," Grantaire thumbed the lobe of the object in question, and began scrubbing the skin there.

"Fatter?" Enjolras' voice was oddly hollow, as it always was whenever Grantaire's fingers and hands ventured too close to his sensitive neck.

"They're fatter. They have more fat on their bodies—"

"I know what being fat means, Grantaire."

"—well, they are. Roosters are thin and stringy. They have more, ah, sinew," he explained, suppressing a shudder as that disgusting word.

"Is that not our fault, though?" Enjolras still had his eyes closed as Grantaire bypassed his neck, and began scrubbing his shoulders. 

"What is?"

"Fat hens?"

"I think fat hens are a practicality."

"Yes, perhaps in wintertime, but—" Enjolras shuddered as Grantaire discovered a knot of muscle, and tightened his grip in order to begin massaging it out, "—discriminating against hens by fattening only them—"

"I think it's a practicality, hon," Grantaire said, hands working their way down his back and sides, "For the laying?"

"Right," Enjolras said, quite breathlessly; the soaping a vigorous sensation on his once-sleepy body,"—but we could fatten roosters."

"What for?"

"Wintertime?"

"It's not to prevent them from getting cold—," Grantaire smoothed his thumb over the trail of hair on Enjolras' abdomen, "—it's because it helps with the laying. I think."

"You think?"

"Maybe hens like being fat—"

"They do?"

"I don't know. I'm not the chicken whisperer, able to glean secrets from the heads of chickens."

Enjolras laughed, locking their fingers together, and stepped up against Grantaire; bodies glistening with soap under the hot water. The wet slide of skin on skin robbed them both of breath, and eyes closed, they sought out each other's smiling mouth for a brief kiss.

"Morning," Grantaire whispered, licking water from Enjolras' left earlobe.

"Good morning," Enjolras whispered back, "You need a shave."

Grantaire chuckled, and rudely rubbed his jaw on Enjolras' damp neck; hands holding the man in place, even as he squirmed.

"You don't, as _usual_."

The fine blonde hair that grew on the man's cheeks and jaw overnight rarely needed shaving every day. Enjolras could go two of three days without a shave, and the hair there would barely have thickened by the time he decided to shave his face. Grantaire was the opposite; shaving every morning and finding new growth spouting o his face by mid-afternoon, and leaving it for two or three days gave the man an impressive near-beard. 

"I will."

"Good."

"After, of course."

"Of course." Enjolras nodded, tucking his face into Grantaire's neck, "You know—"

"Know what?"

"—we might as well start showering together," Enjolras said, pressing closer to him, "You were correct, it seems."

"About—?"

"This doomed planet. Us wasting water."

"Oh, I see."

"Plus, it'll save on our bill."

"On the one hand, what you just suggested is romantic—and erotic—as all fuck. Showering together would be—," Grantaire paused, searching for the right word, "—lovely."

"So it's settled."

"On the other hand," he continued, "You happened to have proposed our showering together as a merit of fiscal responsibility."

Enjolras looked at him. Grantaire stared back.

"...is that not okay?"

" _Au contraire, mon ange_ —," Grantaire bit down on his bottom lip, trying to hold back a smirk, "—it's the most _you_ thing you've _ever_ said."


	3. Glub, Glub (Boys in the Tub) [II]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire share a bath.

They were eating dinner at the breakfast bar; knives and forks clicking on their almost unfinished plates, each man nursing a half-glass of white wine. They had kept up a quiet conversation throughout their meal; feet tangling beneath the bench as they talked, a small intimacy unfolding in the moment as they leaned into each other to close that small distance between them, occasionally picking food off the other's plate as they discussed their afternoon activities and planned their evening. Would they watch a film? Ennjolras wanted to watch a World News special at half-nine; Grantaire happily agreeing to settle down comfortably with his sketchbook and finish off something he had started the previous afternoon. Picking at the melted cheese and tuna, Grantaire hummed to himself as he picked the sketch in his mind; adding lines and erasing others. 

"Why don't we have a bath?" Enjolras said, thoughtfully. 

"Why—," Grantaire blinked, surprised, " _Uh_ , what?"

"Would you like to have a bath with me?"

" _Uh_ , sure," he shifted, sliding to the edge of the stool, and shrugged, "Why not?"

"Alrighty," Enjolras said, vaguely, putting his wineglass down on the bench, "I'll go and start it."

"Let me just, _um_ , clear the table," Grantaire began, ducking his head, "Then I'll, _uh_ , be in."

"Take your time," he smiled, hands sliding into his pockets as he wandered down the hall.

Grantaire blinked in surprise at their future actives, letting out a soft giggle as he busily scraped the remainder of his food onto Enjolras' plate. _The leftover plate_ , they called it; scraping the remains of the meal onto a designated plate and covering it with al-foil or plastic wrap. They usually stowed it on the third shelf in the fridge, and picked at the food during other meals for the rest of the week to keep themselves from cooking when neither of them were willing to cook, or even eat, a complete meal. It was the easiest way for them to save time, money, and food. With the plates clean of their scraps, he stuck them in the sink, hearing the bathwater start; a rush of water in the porcelain a distinctive and recognisable sound, even with the clatter of plates and cutlery in the sink. Tossing back his head, he finished his wine with a gulp, leave the plates and cutlery, the pots and pans, soaking in the sink. He would clean them after their bath. 

 _Their bath_.

Enjolras and Grantaire had never shared a bath before. The shower? Yes, _certainly_. They had taken to sharing their morning and evening shower; swapping off each Wednesday night to wash the other's hair, but had never shared a bath. Grantaire was almost _nervous_ , walking down the hall towards the bathroom with his own hands jammed into his pockets. He was not one to usually enjoy sharing his ablutions; a habit he had never thought to adapt after his _other_ relationships, but had slowly come to enjoy showering and shaving of a morning with Enjolras. It was an intimacy that they both valued; an intimacy that they had come to look forward to sharing with each other. Standing in the doorway, Grantaire found Enjolras sitting on the edge of the tub; elbows braced on his knees as he watched the line of water creep upwards. 

"Everything's in the sink," Grantaire said, feeling awkward, "I'll finish washing it all up, _um_. Afterwards."

"There's no rush," Enjolras said, gently, testing the water with his hand. 

"Okay," Grantaire nodded, leaning against the doorjamb. Why did he feel so awkward; the conversation so stilted? They had been naked in front of each other before; had been sharing their showers for several weeks. It was nothing particularly new, and _yet_ —

He cleared his throat, stepped into the bathroom, and shut the door with a _click_. One hand braced against the wall, he lifted a foot and peeled off one sock, and then the other; balling them up and throwing them in the direction of the half-full clothes hamper. His back to Enjolras, Grantaire began to unbutton his flannel with slow, decisive movements. He continued to picture the sketch in his head; adding lines, erasing them, lips pursing as he considered the possibilities of charcoal. Enjolras was busily turning off the taps, wiping his damp hands on his jeans as he stood, eyes running over and down Grantaire's shoulders as he watched him pull off his overshirt and crumple it into a ball. It, too, landed near the laundry hamper. Enjolras chuckled, shaking his head as he picked up R's discarded shirt and socks. 

"What?" Grantaire asked, slightly confused.

"Nothing," Enjolras replied, shaking his head. He, too, began stripping off his clothing; unbuttoning his shirt with quick, decisive flicks of his fingers over his buttons, and slid it over his shoulders. Instead of balling the fabric, and throwing it into the basket, Enjolras folded it and dropped it into the basket. Grantaire watched him; unbuckling his own belt, letting out a snort of laughter at his fastidious lover and his particular habits. 

"What?" Enjolras asked, unblocking his belt.

"Nothing," Grantaire replied, shaking his head; a wide grin stretching across his face as he unbuttoned his jeans, tugging them down his legs in a single, rapid movement. Into—or rather, very _near_ —the basket went his jeans and undershirt, crumpled into a ball like his flannel and socks. Enjolras sighed, staring down at them with a particular look of disappointment; one that made Grantaire giggle like a schoolboy. Enjolras stripped off his own undershirt and dumped it into the basket, placing their clothes into the basket and setting the wicker lid on top. They stood before each other, utterly naked; eyes running across and over each other's bodies. Enjolras smiled at Grantaire, reaching up and tucking strands of hair behind his ears. Grantaire blushed, licking his lips as he eyed the dark strip of hair that trailed down Enjolras' abdomen. 

Grantaire watched Enjolras neatly lower himself into the tub. He continued to watch, eyes wide, as Enjolras let out a satisfied grunt at the feel of the water; immersing his fingers, hands, and wrists, in the hot water in quick succession. Grantaire continued to watch, eyes just as wide, and Enjolras shut his eyes, drew a deep breath, and slid down into the water; knees protruding. Éloy Grantaire could not help but moan as he watched bubbles issue from Enjolras' mouth and nose, rapidly rising to the surface and bursting. Enjolras had immersed himself beneath the water for a moment, and was sliding up in the next, skin turning dark pink from the heat; pushing his sodden hair back from his face. He opened his eyes, and looked up at Grantaire, swiping his hand across his face.

When he turned, Enjolras was still watching him, blue eyes steady. Pulling nervously on his thicket of curls, Grantaire stork-stepped into the bath; Enjolras shifting so that he was sitting, rather than reclining, and as Grantaire manoeuvred himself down, into the tub, Enjolras took a steady grip on his hips, pulling them flush together. He was right about the water, it being hotter than they would usually have it; Grantaire drawing in a sharp breath at the heat on his previously cool skin, and he moaned at the tingling in his toes, wiggling them to keep them from aching. His hands clenched Enjolras' wrists as the water settled over his hips and legs, and wriggled his hips in order to find a comfortable position; a motion at which Enjolras tightened the grip on his hips, holding him in place, as they settled into a comfortable recline; gradually adjusting to the heat of the water.

"Feels good," Grantaire said, softly; relaxing against him. 

"Hmm," was the response; Enjolras fingers tracing small shapes over his thighs.

"Nice and warm," Grantaire clarified, cupping his hands and scooping up two handfuls of hot, soapy water. 

"I should hope so," Enjolras said, scrubbing a damp hand through Grantaire's thick curls, "A hot bath is the very thing we wanted, and needed."

 

After the initial shock of the hot water, they were able to settle down, enjoying the warm water, and the lax position they lay in; Enjolras pressing soft kisses to his shoulders, and rubbing his hands and fingers against his tummy.Extending a lazy hand, Enjolras reached out and snagged the bottle of 2 in 1, popping the lid open. Grantaire watched as he squirted some of the blue liquid—blueberry and lime—into the palm of his hands, and rub them together to create a lather.

"Do you mind?" Enjolras asked, hand hovering above Grantaire's midriff.

"Uh—," Grantaire hesitated, watching blue liquid drip into the water, "—sure. Go ahead."

The hand, now full of shampoo and conditioner, rubbed circles into his chest and shoulder; fingers rubbing the muscle and sinew, working out the aches that his joints accrued from sitting in his hunched positions as he sketched. Enjolras always criticised the way he sat, not understanding the hypocrisy of it: having often assumed the most hunched position possible when writing his own essays, or reading a large textbook. Whenever Grantaire pointed it out, Enjolras laughed it off; shrugging his obviously aching shoulders, a hand rubbing at his obviously aching back. 

"Oh—," he grunted, shifting against Enjolras, "—that's _good_."

"I'm glad," Enjolras said, fingers digging into his shoulders.

" _Ouch_ —"

"You've got a knot there—," Enjolras frowned, both hands working at his shoulder, "—and I can't quite _get_ it."

"Ow—!" Grantaire hissed, trying to struggle away from him; bathwater splashing out of the tub, and wetting the floor, "—that really hurts!"

"I _know_ , but—" Enjolras gave a final tug, releasing Grantaire's shoulder, "Maybe later, then, hmm?"

"That _really_ bloody _hurt_ ," Grantaire complained, rubbing his shoulder, "You wouldn't like it if I—"

"Au contraire," Enjolras said, pressing a kiss to his neck, "I think you'll find that I'd like that _very much_."

"Really?" Grantaire was surprised, glancing back at Enjolras over his right shoulder, "You would?"

"Mhmm," Enjolras nodded; cheeks flushing pink.

His tongue darted out, moistening his upper lip in apparent nervousness, and Grantaire smirked.

"Well, then—," he smirked at Enjolras, "We mustn't linger here, then, mustn't we?"

Enjolras nodded, blushing at the thought of their future activities.  


	4. Morning, Morning [Part I]

Enjolras was in the throes of some sort of dream; a nightmarish scenario, of sorts, involving a split-level house and a silhouetted man standing in a doorway smoking a cigarette, shadows dancing over his face as he plays with the pull-cord on the slate blinds. He's got the strangest feeling that he's late for the most important meeting of his life, but cannot, for the life of him, find out on what floor he's supposed to be meeting his father-in-law and the rest of the 1978 French delegation to the United Nations. If he walks one floor up and arrives early, he's not sure he'll be able to stay awake during their important brief, but if he walks one floor down and comes to realise that the meeting is, in fact, one floor up, he'll arrive late, and he'll be thrown out of the meeting, as well as his marriage. 

It was not until a bright spear of sunlight pierced through his veil of sleep did he realise that he had been flailing amidst the covers for a good few minutes; that the phone he was reaching out to clutch at only read 7:01AM-his alarm not even _close_ to going off-and that his nighttime companion was staring at him with the twin expressions of alarm and hilarity: a mixture of  _what_ - _are_ - _you_ - _doing_ - _are_ - _you_ - _okay_  and  _holy-shit-you've-never-done-that-before-that's-hilarious-what-are-you-doing_ _-you-weird-man_. Green eyes blinked solemnly down at sleepy blue eyes; both marred by light purple under-eye circles, signifying their recent months of late nights, early starts, and even all-nighters. Blinking gently at each other, unwilling to break the early-morning silence; a shuffling beneath the blankets, and a small hand emerged from beneath the four or five blankets that they piled on themselves to sleep; Grantaire reaching out to tuck a strand of blond hair behind his lover's ear.  

"Morning," he murmured, cupping his cheek. 

Enjolras, in lieu of a reply, pressed into the gentle touch; sighing in almost distress as he closed his eyes and a wave of exhaustion crashed over him. It was the end of another long week; a series of long weeks coalescing into a long month, the past few months having been utterly exhaustive and incredibly busy. Sunday mornings were, preferably, spent in bed by both men, lying under the covers and trying to catch up on their missed sleep. If they weren't sleeping, they merely lay together in bed; hands petting each other with gentle motions, pressing soft kisses into their temples and against the soft skin of their necks. Hearing him sigh, and feeling the heaviness in his body, Grantaire pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

"Coffee?" he asked, nodding at his nightstand. 

"Hmm," Enjolras nodded, blinking blearily through the haze of sunlight that flooded through the window. With a deft hand, Grantaire reached behind him and picked up his mug, holding it out for Enjolras to take. Two large hands emerged from the blanket and reached up to cup the white mug; lashes fluttering at the warmth seeping through, deep into his skin. He held it up to his mouth, taking a long and grateful gulp of the coffee. Grantaire watched him drinking, petting and stroking his hair and cheek. 

"Did I wake you?" Enjolras asked, hoarsely; pressing the warm mug to his cheek. 

"I was already awake," Grantaire said, shaking his head.

"Really?" he murmured, cradling the mug, "Why?"

"Had to pee, wanted some coffee," Grantaire took the mug from coffee, and took a gulp, "We really should fix the curtains."

They both squinted up at that gap in the curtains, hissing in comedic exaggeration at the hateful sunlight that burst through the window. It was not the first time that they had both woken because of the sun. Enjolras rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands, nodding at the suggestion, and Grantaire took another drink of coffee; eyeing the hateful gap in the drapes. 

"Maybe something bigger..." he murmured, still squinting. 

"We'll add curtain shopping to the list," Enjolras replied, still rubbing his eyes. 

"List?"

"Of things we need to do," he explained.

His rubbing finally completed, Enjolras blinked through the white haze of having rubbed his eyes for several minutes, and smiled over at Grantaire through the tangled curtain of his dark blond hair. Grantaire smiled back, reaching out to tug on a strand of hair. The sharp tug made Enjolras hiss, again, and he pulled away from Grantaire's thick fingers; reclining against their pile of pillows in tired annoyance. Grantaire followed him down, pressing himself against Enjolras' side, and brushing his lips over the dry skin beneath his jaw. 

"What else?"

"Hmm?" Enjolras' lashes were fluttering at the damp pressure beneath his jaw.

"What else do we have to do?" Grantaire clarified, rubbing his fingertips through Enjolras' hair. 

"I need to go to the bank and cash a cheque," Enjolras began, rubbing his eyes, again, "And I have to inquire at the library for a book."

"Okey-doke."

"We also need more dishwashing liquid, paper towel, and ironing starch."

"The lemon-smelling stuff?"

"Yes," Enjolras nodded, "The stuff that you like to spray on the tiles in the kitchen, and pretend that you're ice-skating."

Grantaire snorted, trying to hide a smile. Enjolras glared, but was too tired to pretend to be angry. 

"Anything else?"

"Do you need anything? You know- brushes, paper, paint?"

"I'm fine. I think-"

"Have a look, then, and if you need anything we'll go and get it."

"Should we shower, then?" Grantaire suggested, "Get more coffee?"

"After," Enjolras sighed, eyes closed, "Just. Give me a moment."

"Okey-doke," Grantaire said, quietly; reaching up to brush his hair behind his ears, "Take your time."


End file.
